The Golden Years
by Tarabridget87
Summary: Satine and Christian are the oldest living people in the world as of the year 2003. They are both 129 years old and have some elderly life problems. It's just so stupid, it might actually be funny. R&R, tell me what you think.


THE GOLDEN YEARS

_Back in 1899 . . ._

The giant red curtains fatally closed and Satine collapsed into Christian's arms. Christian's heart sped fast as he looked down at his poor Satine. "Somebody get some help!" he cried desperately.

"I'm d-d-d . . ." was all Satine could manage to sputter out between her hacking coughs. Christian's concerned expression was replaced with a look of pure terror.

"You're dying? NO! I can't go on without you!" Christian declared.

"No . . ." Satine shook her head. "I'm _dyeing_ my hair brown. Chill out, Slim."

"Ohhh," Christian sighed with extreme relief. "So, you're not dying from – oh, I dunno – consumption or anything like that?"

"No, not that I know of," she replied as Christian helped her back up to her feet. She fussed with her hair and attempted to straighten out some wrinkles in her dress.

"Well in that case, let me be brutally honest. You would look horrible with brown hair," Christian confessed.

"Hmm . . . then what about blonde?"

A month later, the two got married and pawned all of Satine's diamonds. They bought a pretty robin-egg-blue painted house way out in the country and had 14 children – Harold (after dear Zidler whom helped pay for the wedding), Satin, Christopher, Satan, just plain Chris, Salina, Cricket, Saturn, Crunchy, Saliva, Crop-Duster, Saturated-Fat, Crotch, and last but not least, Muhammad. 

Today - 2003 . . . 

Christian and Satine are now the oldest living people in the world. They still live in their pretty house, but despite all their protests and best efforts, a city had been built around them. Unfortunately, the city had become another gutter of society, and the pair's home was right smack dab in the middle of it. There's graffiti all over the peeling robin-egg-blue paint and they had to have bars installed on the windows when the neighborhood got rough.

Christian still has that same ignorantly happy look on his face, partly because he is extremely senile. He has a single hair on his head left, which he prizes and grooms everyday. But, he has plenty of hair sprouting out of his ears and his nose.

Satine is usually quite grumpy, mostly because Christian can't hear her anymore. She's blind in one eye and has arthritis so bad that she can barely move. But, she still looks pretty damn good for being 129. 

So, here they are, in yet another day in their continuously very long lives, sitting on their porch in their rocking chairs – like they do everyday – rocking away the rest of their lives . . . 

Suddenly, the Puerto Rican paperboy, Miguel, came riding up on his scooter. He cast Satine an evil grin, remembering the time she called him a juvenile delinquent, and tossed the paper as far away from the porch as he could. He cackled as he sped away.

"Aw, damn it all to Hell," Satine muttered bitterly, seeing the paper all the way towards the road with her one functioning eye.

"Ehh?" Christian squawked in reply, holding a cupped hand up to his ear.

Satine turned toward Christian and yelled loudly, "I said, damn it all to Hell!"

"Ehh?" came Christian's standard response.

"I can't even talk to you anymore. You're so god damn old you can't hear a word I say," Satine complained, her voice hoarse and worn with old age.

"Ehh?" 

Satine leaned over and screamed into his ear, "Turn on your hearing aid!"

"Yes, I do remember the parade," Christian nodded. Satine lifted a bony finger and pointed to the paper, in a last attempt to make him understand.

"The paper, Christian! The paper! GO GET THE PAPER!"

Christian squinted and sure enough, there was the paper lying in the overgrown, weed-filled yard. He finally understood and got off his bony ass to go and fetch it for his dear Satine. He moved slower than the rate at which a snail could travel, yet Satine marveled at his speed because as she got older, she could barely bend over to tie her own shoe (she had to finally give in and settle on that new-fangled velcro contraption).

"Poor bastard can't hear a thing, but when I see him move like that . . . oh God he just turns me on – moving like he's 95 again," Satine grinned wickedly as she watched the old fart hobble down the sidewalk.

It soon became nighttime in the city – gunshots from the local gangstas rang out clear as a bell and police sirens had begun to sound more like a lullaby in this less than fair city. Christian was nearly to the paper.

            He paused and turned around to update Satine on the status of the newspaper gathering mission. "Almost to the paper, my love!"

The next day, Christian returned with yesterday's newspaper. He let out a great sigh of relief – and perhaps a little gas – as he settled back into his rocking chair. He proudly handed Satine the paper.

Satine was very pleased, and a little turned on. "Thank you, my dearest," she said in her best seductive voice.

"WHAT?!" Christian asked loudly.

Satine hunched back in her rocking chair and sighed. "Nothing."

Satine began idly thumbing through the paper, even though she couldn't read a word of it. She hadn't been able to read in over 50 years. Still, everyday she pretended to so she could keep herself busy.

"Satine," Christian said after a while. "When are the children are coming to visit us? I miss Crop-Duster!"

"Crop-Duster died 16 years ago," Satine responded flatly, shaking her head.

"What'd ya say?"

Satine rested her chin on her gaudily decorated hand as she mused. "Those lousy, good-for-nothing children didn't leave us a cent, and after all we did for them! They just left us here in the ghetto to rot away. They didn't even take the trouble to visit us. You'd think that after your 9th heart attack, they would've at least sent a card . . . but no card, no nothing! If I could get off my wrinkly ass, I would go stomp on their graves."

There was a long pause of silence as Satine thought about her rotten children.

"I'm having tea and biscuits with Elenor Roosevelt today," Christian stated with quite a high degree of deliria.

Satine ignored Christian's random comment and continued to get lost in her thoughts. "Oh, if I could do it all over again. I'd have made something of myself. I'd be remembered as: Satine, the beautiful and talented actress. Now, look at me. Well, at least we have each other, right Christian?"

Satine didn't even get an "Ehh?" from Christian. She glanced over to find him staring blankly into the distance. He heaved over on his side and scratched his bottom.

"Christian!" Satine flicked his head.

"Yes, my darling?" he cooed as he turned to face her. As Satine looked into those bright eyes, she remembered all the romance they'd shared over the years.

"Christian, would you recite a poem for me?" Satine screamed, but this time more patiently.

 "Comb?"

"POEM!" She sounded out slowly.

"Oh, a poem!" Christian nodded in delight. "Of course, Shnookum! Alright, here it goes . . ." he cleared his throat and let the poetry spill forth.

"Ah, my lovely Satine.

You remind me of a jellybean.  
Sweet and nice,

But costing a price.

Because you were a hoe,

How low can you go? 

Ah, Satine, how I love you so."

Satine would've protested to this years ago, but thinking about herself as something men would pay for made her delighted.

"Oh, I love you, you old senile bastard!" Satine squealed as she hugged Christian.

"Ehh?"

**A/N: **Some might recognize this story. I decided it was time I added more to one of my favorite stories. I reposted this chapter in a story format, but it's basically the same original story I posted so long ago. If this was your first time reading, don't forget to review!


End file.
